


Heart and Soul

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [6]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Brothers, CIA, Crossover, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Future, Gen, Memories, Moscow, Regret, Spies, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:25:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.
Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.
Twenty years after the events that brought them back together, Kirill takes a trip to Moscow with his twin.
Takes place in late June 2030.





	

"Stop it," William murmured at his brother.

Kirill scrunched his face into a confused frown. "Stop what?" he demanded to know.

"Stop glaring at that poor boy," William explained, his lips curling in amusement.

Kirill huffed, turned slightly in his seat and made a very obvious show of slowly looking around the square. "Don't know what you are talking about," he said primly, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

William grinned, relishing the opportunity to put his younger sibling to rights. "I'm talking about the good-looking young man over there who's having a _very_ earnest conversation with your older daughter. You've been giving him your best death stare for the last ten minutes."

"No, I have not," was Kirill's indignant response.

"Yes, you have."

"I am not staring at anyone," Kirill protested. "I am simply people watching."

"People watching," William repeated in a dubious tone. "Right."

Kirill swivelled to face his twin. "And you are a fine one to talk," he tetchily pointed out, furrowing his brows again. "We both know that if the good-looking young man in question was having a very earnest conversation with _your_ older daughter, you would also be giving him your best death stare."

William gave a nonchalant shrug. "I'm sure I would," he cheerfully conceded. "But we also both know that's never actually going to be a problem, don't we?"

"Yes, yes," Kirill acknowledged with a weary sigh. "Tatiana is far too smart and far too practical to go having earnest conversations with strange young men in public places. No matter _how_ good-looking they are."

"Not my fault my kids are so much smarter than yours."

"Your children can have all the brains in the family," Kirill offered with a pompous air. "Mine will have all the looks instead."

Now it was William's turn to frown. "You saying my kids aren't good-looking?"

"No, Viko, of course not," Kirill soothed. "Your children are both extremely attractive. Just nowhere near as attractive as mine," he explained with a nod at his older child.

As the two of them turned to look, seventeen-year-old Alexandra Kirillovna Orlova playfully swatted her new friend on the arm, let out a coquettish laugh and shook her sumptuous, tawny hair gently away from her face.

"Is it just me, or does she do that hair thing in slow motion?" William enquired.

Kirill sighed again. "I try not to think about that."

"Or about the fact she's a month away from turning eighteen."

"Or that."

"And has absolutely _terrible_ taste in men."

"Yes, thank you, Viko," Kirill said brusquely, in the tone of a father who'd had to have a quiet word with one too many unsuitable suitors. "There is no need to remind me."

William grinned again. It was usually Kirill who passed the time by pushing other people's buttons; it was nice to occasionally reverse the roles.

"You can't really blame her, though," he said, preparing another gentle prod.

"Why not?" Kirill asked with narrowed eyes.

"Because she inherited her terrible taste in men from her mother."

"You are so funny."

"One of us has to be."

Kirill sniffed delicately and turned away, returning to his parental watch.

William made his own thorough scan of the square, looking for a woman in blue. "Speaking of wives and mothers, where the hell have our other halves gone now?" he asked.

"They were in the queue for the mausoleum," Kirill replied, gesturing at the angular building across the way. "It was supposed to open fifteen minutes ago, so they have probably gone inside."

William slowly cast his gaze over the iconic tomb. "Can't believe they still haven't buried the poor bastard."

"Zolotov is in favour of it," Kirill reminded him. "He believes it is time for Russia to finally put the past to rest."

"Not gonna argue with him there."

"Perhaps you should also pay the great man a visit, then, while you still have the chance. He might not be here if and when you ever return."

William shook his head. "Don't need to. Saw him when I was living here back in 2003. Don't imagine he's changed very much since then."

"No, he has not. He is still dead."

"And still bald."

Kirill smiled, then fixed his attention on a seam in the ground and let out a quiet, almost mournful sigh. "I still get mad when I think about that," he murmured. "Even after all this time."

"About what?" William asked.

"About the fact that you, Michelle and Andrew lived in Moscow for more than a year, and I had absolutely no idea."

William echoed his brother's sigh. "Yeah."

"When I think about how different our lives might have been if we had found each other back then instead…" Kirill trailed off into silence, unable to put his musings into words.

"Waste of time," William replied, shaking his head again. "The past is gone, and what's done is done. Just be glad we _did_ eventually find each other. That's all that really matters now."

"And perhaps in the end, it was for the best," Kirill concluded.

"What makes you say that?" William enquired, trying his best to sound nonchalant. He could count on one hand the number of times during the last twenty years when Kirill had been willing to talk about his pre-Bourne life. Whether from anger or hurt or guilt or shame, or simply because he couldn't remember it very clearly, William wasn't really sure. If his twin was in a rare mood to open up, even to tell him something he already knew, he didn't want say the wrong thing and accidentally shut him down.

Kirill continued but kept his eyes fixed securely on the ground. "I was a very unpleasant person back then," he calmly confessed. "And not just because of what I did for a living. In many other ways as well. I had no patience or compassion for anyone or anything. I treated people appallingly, used and abused them however and whenever I could, especially women. And Viko, there were _so many_ women. I swear, in the seven years I lived there after the end of my Spetsnaz career, I must have whored my way through every bar and nightclub in Moscow." He paused for a moment, frowned and sighed, but soon resumed. "I was arrogant and callous and vicious and rude, and I do not think you would have liked me very much. In fact, I think you would have wanted to kill me, brother or not."

"Maybe, maybe not," was William's philosophical response. "But we'll never know one way or the other, so why the hell are you even thinking about it?"

Kirill smiled again. "You know me, always dwelling on the past."

"Yeah, you and the rest of Russia," William scornfully pointed out. "How many times do I have to tell you not to do that? You know as well as I do it's a complete and utter waste of your time, especially since you've _more_ than proved it was worth the effort to bring you back to the United States. You have people in your life who care about you," he said, gesturing at Alexandra, "and none of them give a damn about who or what you used to be. They only care about who and what you are now."

"You are right, as always."

William snorted. "Can I get that in writing?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

The waiter returned to the table, bringing their conversation to a temporary halt. He set down two large cups of coffee and a tray containing a variety of dainty cakes, then gave them a polite nod and withdrew as smoothly as he'd arrived.

William brought his cup to his lips, blew gently across the steaming surface and took a cautious sip. He smiled as Kirill did the same and once again wondered if their love of coffee was coded into their DNA.

"This is nice," he said to his twin.

Kirill raised a questioning brow. "What, the coffee?" he asked.

"Yeah, but also that we're drinking it here, of all places. Given the way you left the country, I honestly never thought we'd have the chance."

Here was a private, well-appointed table on the terrace of an elegant café, on the northeast side of Red Square, directly across from Lenin's Tomb. It wasn't a first time in Moscow for either of them, or even a first time at this particular location, but it was their first visit to both places together.

Kirill nodded. "Yes, it is."

"Does it feel strange?" William enquired. "To be back in Moscow, I mean."

"A little bit."

"Anything in particular?"

"Not really, no. It is the same as any return to a place after a long time away. Some things are completely different, but some things are exactly the same," Kirill explained, waving at Lenin's Tomb.

"Just a shame it took so long to arrange."

Kirill gave a dispassionate shrug. "Twenty years is better than never. And even when I lived here, I never truly thought of Moscow as home, so I have not exactly been desperate to return. To be honest, I think I was more nervous about our stopover in Berlin," he admitted with a small smile.

A smile which William returned. "Yeah, me too."

He turned to survey the white and yellow splendour of the Kremlin Senate, the home of the Russian presidential administration. He and Michelle were due to attend a formal reception in the building later that afternoon, and were looking forward to viewing some of its famous rooms, especially the Catherine Hall.

"Think Zolotov will be any better than the last two?" he asked, nodding at the Senate dome.

"I hope so, for Russia's sake," Kirill replied. "But I am not holding my breath."

A corner of William's mouth twitched. "He hasn't ordered anyone to shoot you yet, so that has to be a promising sign."

"Viko, he has just been elected President of the Russian Federation, his treasury is running out of money, and he has a war brewing on one of his borders," Kirill testily pointed out. "I'm sure he has more important matters to attend to than a twenty-year-old case of mid-level treason committed by someone who is legally dead."

"Not that he would risk it, even if that wasn't the case," William continued, pausing mid-sentence to sip at his coffee again. "Seeing as how you're travelling on a consular passport."

"In the company of the new Director of the CIA."

It took William a few seconds to remember Kirill was referring to him. He'd held the position for less than a month and was still getting used to his new rank.

"And I could be wrong, but I don't think Ruben and Chetana would appreciate someone taking pot-shots at me," Kirill said, turning to glance at two of William's guards, who were sitting at another table. Another one had stayed with the car, and two more were circulating in the crowd.

William chuckled into his cup and lined up yet another prod. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. I think they're finding the trip a bit monotonous so far. They actually might enjoy it."

"What, watching someone shoot me?"

"Kir, there are days when _I_ would enjoy watching someone shoot you."

Kirill huffed. "Should have strangled you in the womb," he muttered.

"Just count yourself lucky I didn't try to absorb you."

"Given the way you put away cake, that is actually a very serious threat."

"Speaking of cake," William murmured, plucking a sugary pastry from the tray.

He glanced up and saw two familiar female figures strolling towards them from across the square. Both tall, slim and very attractive for their age; one brunette, the other as tawny-haired as her beautiful daughter.

"Looks like the date with Vladimir is over."

Kirill gave him a sharp look, momentarily confused, then followed the direction of his gaze and smiled as comprehension dawned. He stood up, waved to catch his wife's attention, then pointed at Alexandra and made a herding motion with his hands, instructing his lovelier and better half to quietly collect their daughter and scare the attentive boy away. He nodded in satisfaction as Catherine acknowledged his request and veered off to gather up their baby girl.

William hid his grin behind his cake. He could be (and had been) as protective of his progeny as the next man, but with Kirill, it was almost an Olympic sport. He liked to think it was the universe's way of pulling an excellent, karma-based joke. Given the astonishing number of women his brother had sown his oats in over the years prior to finally settling down (including at _least_ a dozen at the CIA), it was rather appropriate that he'd ended up as the father of two dauntingly pretty girls.

"The trip's been good for her," he told his twin.

Kirill frowned and leaned in to claim a cake of his own. "Who, Catherine?"

William shook his head. "Alexandra," he explained. Not that it hadn't been good for Catherine as well. Or Michelle, for that matter. Hell, for _all_ of them, himself included; his opportunity to finally put some troubling ghosts from the past to rest.

But as was so often the case, Kirill took a less rosy view. "Yes, she is learning how to flirt in Russian as well as in English," he said sourly.

"She certainly is," William replied, chuckling again. "But that's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?" Kirill asked, ignoring the initial remark.

William eyed another cake. "You remember when we were kids in Berlin, how I was always closer to mom, but you were always closer to dad? And I was more comfortable speaking English, but you were more comfortable speaking Russian?"

Kirill nodded. "Yes, of course. And I think it is why they separated us the way they did. In some ways, it made a lot of sense."

"Think it would have made even more sense not to separate us at all," William countered very softly.

"Hmm," was all Kirill said.

William moved on, recognizing another very painful topic that neither of them cared to review. "Well, it's turned out the same with you and your girls."

"Oh?" Kirill prompted, frowning slightly.

"Alex is much closer to you than Catherine, and Becky is much closer to Catherine than you," William explained. "You love both of them equally, of course, but for whatever reason, that's just how it's worked out."

Not that he didn't know exactly what that reason was. More than any other event, the arrival of his first child had finally made Kirill accept that he had a future in the States, and things were probably going to be okay. Alexandra hadn't been the only person born that day in the summer of 2012. It had been a moment of emotional rebirth and renewal for her father as well.

The father in question smiled. "I don't know if you have noticed, Viko, but it is the same with you and your children. Andrew is very much his mother's son, and Tatiana is very much her father's daughter."

"I've never really thought about it, but yeah, now you mention it, I guess you're right."

Not that he didn't love his son, of course, but just like Kirill and Alexandra, he and Tatiana definitely had a much stronger bond. He wondered how much of that was due to Andrew's choice of career. It was hard for two people to connect when one of them was an up-and-coming civil rights lawyer while the other one ran the CIA. He made a mental note to take his son out for a couple of beers once they were back in the States.

"So, to get back to the point, what does this have to do with our trip?" Kirill asked.

William swirled his coffee around in his cup, taking a moment to choose the most appropriate words.

"Alex loves that the two of you are so close," he started. "She knows fine well she's a daddy's girl, and she doesn't care. She makes a big deal out of her Russian heritage because she wants to please you. You're Russian, so she wants to be Russian as well," he continued. "Does that make sense?"

Kirill nodded and took another bite of his cake, but said nothing.

"Problem is, she's American born and bred, so I think she ends up feeling a bit confused. As if knowing how to make borscht or sing 'Kalinka' means she's somehow betraying the country of her birth. I think this trip has helped her to realize that she's not betraying anyone, and that it's okay to be proud of her Russian roots, because there's a lot about this country that's worth being proud of."

"She can have an American heart, but a Russian soul," Kirill said quietly.

William paused, then nodded and smiled. "Exactly," he agreed. "You know, for a former member of Spetsnaz, you can sometimes be extremely poetic."

"Must be all that Pushkin they made me read in school."

"I thought you went to a military school?"

"For a few years, yes."

"And they made you read _poetry_?"

Kirill emitted a weary sigh. "They made us read Pushkin, Viko. There is a difference."

"Wouldn't know. Not much of a poetry fan, to be honest. I've always preferred books."

"Especially if they have pictures in them."

"You saying I'm not cultured?"

"Viko, you thought Puccini was a type of pasta."

"Isn't it?" William innocently asked, resuming his button-pushing duties.

"He is a composer," Kirill tartly advised. "As important to opera as Pushkin is to poetry."

"Eh. Not much of a fan of opera, either. All that goddamn shrieking."

Kirill's comeback died on his lips as the women joined them at the table. Alexandra claimed the seat on the inner side, between her uncle and her father, leaning in briefly as she sat to give the latter a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Yes, yes," Kirill muttered, pretending to brush her show of affection away, but the humour shining in his eyes contradicted his serious tone.

"How was Lenin?" William enquired, raising a hand to catch the waiter's eye.

"Dead," Michelle said matter-of-factly.

"Bald," Catherine added, sounding slightly disappointed.

Kirill shot his brother a grin.

"I didn't realize it would be so dark inside," Catherine went on. "I almost missed the last step on the way down the stairs. Damn near fell and broke my neck."

"But she used me as her landing mat at the bottom, so it worked out fine," Michelle concluded with a smile.

The conversation paused again as the waiter returned to attend to his new guests. To William's surprise, Alexandra ordered for them, in hesitant but competent Russian. She still had a way to go before she was completely fluent, and her accent needed a bit of work, but unlike his own children, who were more interested in Spanish and French, at least she had decided to learn.

Michelle frowned at the plate of cakes, then very deliberately pulled them out of her husband's reach. "You don't need to be eating those," she warned.

William huffed. "Says who?" he demanded to know, trying to pull the plate back.

"Says your pant size."

Kirill turned to Alexandra. "Who was that boy you were talking to?" he asked as casually as he could.

Not casually enough.

Alexandra rolled her eyes and picked up one of the remaining cakes. "Nobody, papa. Just another tourist," she said around a mouthful of honey and almond sponge. "From Canada."

"From _Canada_?" William repeated. "Jesus. He probably spent most of the conversation apologizing. He'll be completely harmless."

Kirill speared his brother with a withering glare. "There is no such thing as completely harmless. They are all harmful in some way. Even if they are from Canada."

Alexandra blew out an indignant huff, sounding just like her dad. "The way you're scaring them off, I'll have to move to Canada to get a date," she grumbled.

Michelle snorted, William smiled, Catherine sighed, Kirill gave another satisfied nod.

"Don't worry, _orlyonok_ ," he said to his older child. "The day will eventually come when I am happy to leave you alone in the company of a strange man."

"What, like, when I'm thirty-five?"

"I was thinking thirty myself, but thirty-five is even better."

Another pause as the waiter returned with the ladies' orders; coffee for Catherine, tea for Michelle, and a mug of apple-flavoured kvass for Alexandra.

William took advantage of the break to steer them onto a less contentious topic. "By the way, I think I finally have the title for my book," he informed Michelle. "I'm gonna call it _American Heart, Russian Soul_."

"Ooh, I like that," Michelle replied with an approving nod. " _Very_ poetic."

"But I came up with that," Kirill protested. Then he frowned. "And _what_ book?"

"I didn't tell you I'm writing a book?" William asked ingenuously, knowing fine well he'd done absolutely no such thing.

"No, Viko, you did not."

"Yeah, me neither," Catherine added. "What's it about?"

"Not really sure how to describe it. I guess you could say it's a family memoir, with some analysis of post-Cold War politics and American-Russian diplomatic relations mixed in to the story for good measure."

"A family memoir?" Kirill repeated. "So you are going to write about our parents, and about what happened to us when they divorced?"

"Don't know how much detail I'll go into, and I'll obviously have to leave out all of the confidential stuff, but yeah, I am. Are you okay with that?"

Kirill looked pensive for a few moments, then gave a small shrug and said, "Can't see why I shouldn't be. It is your story to tell as much as mine."

"You've always been a much more private person than me, and if I publish this book, some aspects of our lives wouldn't be completely private."

"Is that why you didn't tell me what you were doing? You assumed it would be easier to ask for forgiveness instead of permission?"

William grinned. "I was worried you'd be upset, get all huffy and give me the silent treatment for a couple of months."

"I never get huffy," Kirill said huffily.

Catherine snorted into her cup.

Kirill narrowed his eyes at his wife, promising retribution in private later, then turned back to his older brother.

"Does not matter how much private information you put in the book," he solemnly declared. "Because nobody will believe you. They will assume you have made the whole thing up, and put it in the fiction section, next to the new Star Trek novel."

"And why the hell would they do that?"

"Think about it, Viko. A story about half-Russian, half-American separated identical twins, featuring a German rocket scientist, an American Rear-Admiral, a Russian sleeper agent, a Vice-President, an arms dealer, an oil and gas oligarch, Swiss bankers, the Berlin Wall, the CIA, the KGB, the SVR, the FSB, the Stasi, MI6, government corruption, money laundering, a hit and run accident, an assassin with amnesia, at least one car chase and a guest appearance by David Bowie?"

"Jesus, _bratishka_ , when you put it like _that_."

"Exactly."

"You could always help him to write it," Catherine proposed, ever the peacekeeper in the group.

"Or at least just check it for spelling errors," Michelle remarked.

Kirill shook his head. "When I put pen to paper, it is to draw. Viko is the writer in the family. But I will review it when he is done," he reassured Michelle. "Criticize his analysis of Russian politics and tell him he has it all wrong."

"Thanks," William said drily.

"What are younger brothers for?"

"Shooting, ideally."

"Besides, if I was writing the book, I would give it a _much_ better title," Kirill told them grandiosely. "Not that the title Viko has chosen is bad, of course, since I came up with it. But I would pick something much sexier."

" _Sexier_?" William skeptically repeated. "What, like _From Russia With Love_?"

" _You Only Live Twice_?" Michelle put in, running with her husband's theme.

" _The Spy Who Loved Me_?" Catherine added with a playful grin.

"Actually, you should call it _How To Lose Friends And Alienate People_ ," William continued. "Because you're a world-class expert at _that_."

"How about _He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother_?" Kirill retorted, staring pointedly at the plate of cakes.

Alexandra giggled.

William narrowed his eyes at his niece, then crumpled his napkin into a ball and threw it at his brother's face. Always with Kirill, the jokes about his diet and weight. And it wasn't as if he'd hit his fifties and turned into a waddling blimp. He was still in excellent physical shape, and maybe seven pounds heavier than his twin, eight at the very most.

This time, it was Michelle who recognized the dangerous topic and guided them onto safer ground.

"So, have you guys decided what you're going to do for the rest of the day?" she asked, looking at Catherine, then at Kirill.

"Not sure," Kirill replied. "Katenka wants to see where I used to work, so we might take the metro out to the Lubyanka. Find out if it is still that terrible orange colour."

"Don't get too close," William warned, thinking about the thousands of lives the infamous building had consumed, including their own father's. "There might be a shiny new name plate on the front door, but I'm pretty sure it's the same old shit going on inside."

"I want to see where you used to live," Alexandra chimed in. "With your father when you were young, I mean. Not when you were older after you left the Army. That would be so cool."

Kirill gave his daughter a tender smile and reached out to carefully tuck a strand of hair back behind one of her ears. "I actually thought about that, but the government demolished the apartment building eight years ago to make room for a new mall," he told her. "So there is nothing left to see."

The young woman's face fell. "Well, that kinda sucks."

"So did the apartment building," Kirill replied. "Trust me, _orlyonok_ , it was not worth seeing. I am sure the new shopping mall is a much better use of the space."

"The building itself might be gone, but the surrounding district will still be there," Catherine reminded her spouse. "We could take a look, go for a wander through the mall, see if I can find a new pair of shoes for the ambassador's party on Friday night."

Kirill grunted in disgust. "Mother of God, woman, how many pairs of shoes do you need?" he exclaimed.

"Well, how many guns do _you_ need?" Catherine shot back.

"That is a completely different matter," Kirill said indignantly. "I need a gun for my work."

William bit down on his grin. He knew fine well that Kirill spent most of his working hours in an office on the third floor, so had no more day-to-day use for a gun than a jetpack or an exploding pen. But he had no intention of stepping into this particular marital tiff, which had probably been running in one form or another since before Alexandra was born.

" _A_ gun, Kiryushok, not seven of them," Catherine complained. "And we had a deal, remember? You buy a gun, I buy a nice pair of shoes. And I'm still owed for that new Glock you bought last month."

Kirill huffed, surrendering under spousal duress. "Very well, but please, try not to bankrupt us. Or at least buy them on your own credit card, so I don't find out how much they cost."

"Have I ever mentioned how glad I am that my wife doesn't have a thing for shoes?" William commented serenely, winking at his other half.

"No, Viko, you are the one in the marriage with the fancy footwear collection," Kirill scornfully pointed out. "There is not enough room in your house for Michelle to have one as well."

"Not _my_ fault I have much better taste in clothes than you."

"I am just glad we are not in Italy, or between the ice cream and the shoes, we would never get you back on the plane."

"For the love of God, you two, don't start," Michelle groaned, gently laying her head in her hand. "At least not here. If you want to have one of your stupid squabbles, go work it out in the embassy gym."

"Speaking of the embassy, we probably shouldn't linger too long," William said to Michelle, tapping on the face of his watch. "I want to have a nap and a shower before we go to the thing at the Senate."

Kirill snorted. "Don't forget your juice box and your bedtime story."

William grinned, waved to catch Chetana's attention, then made a winding motion with his finger, letting the young woman know that he and Michelle were on the move and it was time to call for the car. As he turned his attention back to the table, he noticed a familiar figure hanging around near the end of the terrace, trying and failing to look innocent and nonchalant.

He tapped his niece on the shoulder. "Looks like your new friend is back."

Alexandra leaned all the way back in her chair until she had a clear view, then much to her aunt and uncle's amusement, gave the new friend in question a smile and an affable wave. The Canadian shot a nervous look at each of the four adults in turn, bobbed his head as if to say 'hello', then tentatively waved back.

"He looks like a nice boy," Catherine observed.

"His name is Zachary, he's from Toronto, and he's here on his own," Alexandra quickly put in, following her mother's cue. "If we go sightseeing this afternoon, maybe he could come with us?"

Kirill responded with a nod. "It would be my pleasure to have Zachary join us," he said. Then he flashed a dangerous grin. " _Especially_ if we are going to the Lubyanka."

"Try not to hurt him too much, Kir," William warned as he drained the contents of his cup. "Don't put me in a position where I have to apologize to the Canadians on your behalf. I'm nowhere near as good at it as they are."

"Don't worry, _brat_. I promise I will only hurt him a little."

Kirill winced and recoiled in surprise as his daughter punched him on the arm.

"You're not going to hurt him at all," Alexandra hotly demanded, her hazel eyes flashing with rage.

Catherine laughed; Kirill rubbed his wounded bicep and sighed.

" _Orlyonok_ , your uncle William and I are only joking," he quietly admitted. "I won't lay a finger on him."

The teenager gave a satisfied nod. "Good. Because if you hurt Zack, I won't be able to stay with him when I go to Toronto in September to see the concert he just told me about," she said, producing a smile so pure and angelic even William was almost fooled.

Almost, but not quite. Her father's daughter indeed.

The word 'priceless' didn't even begin to describe the expression on Kirill's face. He looked as if he couldn't decide whether to throw a violent fit or curl up under the table and cry.

William decided to intervene before he had to make the choice.

He assumed his Director's voice. "Young lady, if there's one thing you absolutely do _not_ need to inherit from your father, it's his talent for pushing other people's buttons," he said to his mischievous niece. "You hear?"

Alexandra nodded and blushed, her attempt at mental warfare undone, and turned her attention back to her drink.

Out of the blue, William had an interesting thought. 

A wicked, cruel, clever, dangerous but _very_ interesting thought.

Kirill was going to kill him.

Actually, never mind how Kir would react; _Kate_ would string him up by the balls.

He addressed the young woman again. "Unless, of course, you're considering a career with the CIA?"


End file.
